motor way

as far North
as my neck would turn
and see so many roads
that wind through woods
as a box of pencils or a half used
ream of typing paper.

lights dance
on the rim
and underscore the rime
collected at the
edges of things
made with a torch
and an assortment of hammers.

these tall buildings
ring the public square
as we play chess
on hard cement tables
sitting on chairs
with backs made of
grey, weathered slats.

somewhere on this road
lies a guitar that fell from a truck
driving through Ontario
toward the Ambassador Bridge.

a half used notebook
full of poems in
the slang of two warring languages
lies face up in a drainage ditch
outside a factory
specializing in cyclone fenced
ringed with barbed wire,
big pipes feeding brown fluids
to the river.